


Cougar On A Hot Tin Roof

by rispacooper



Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: Boys in Skirts, Comment Fic, Dog Tags, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Oral Sex, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 03:50:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cougar is doing perfectly well ignoring his feelings for Jensen until Jensen makes himself hard to ignore. </p><p>A commentfic for a prompt about dog tags and a boy in a skirt.</p><p>This work is also available in Russian (http://archiveofourown.org/works/2734043) , translated by answeraquestion.  :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cougar On A Hot Tin Roof

-just stayin' on it, I guess, long as she can-

It was hot outside, not as hot as the high desert, but enough for everyone to have stripped down to thin, sweat-soaked shirts and pants. Everyone but Cougar, who kept full cover in direct sunlight as much to avoid sunburn as to leave him protected at night when chill set in. There had been no need for that today, but it was a good practice and he never let the heat bother him. If any of the others had been under the sun’s glare all day they would have covered up as well.  


The only exception, as always, was Jensen, who did not seem to have the sense of a full grown man, or even the sense God gave to a cat. The warehouse was old, made of concrete and steel, but at least equipped with fans. Jensen had pointed the fans at the table full of his computers and none at himself. A cat would have temporarily given up, would have known to wait out the heat and spare himself the crashed systems and heatstroke. Jensen had chosen to keep working, and to cool himself with nudity, or near nudity. Near nudity, and a skirt.  


Cougar comforted himself with the knowledge that he was not the only one staring. He started his examination of Jensen’s body all over again, directing his gaze first to the flip flop sandals Jensen had gotten from who knew where, then noting for the first time the traces of pink paint at Jensen’s toes. Picked at and chipping, it was clearly nail polish. Sparkly, the kind a child would choose.  


That did not rule out Jensen choosing it, though it should have.  


Cougar had not seen Jensen’s feet in a long time, it was very possible Jensen's niece had painted his toes months ago. Another man might have scraped off the polish once he was away, but this was Jensen.  


Cougar licked his lips, increasingly aware that he needed a drink of water but unwilling to move to get it. Jensen was still typing, a pale green light from the computer screens reflected on his glasses. Whatever he was doing had him excited, one hand idly skipping over the bare, sweaty skin of his chest to rub at his nipple.  


He was dripping with sweat. Cougar watched a few drops make their way from underneath Jensen’s tags to his navel. They dipped in to soak into the fabric at his waist. Cougar could not identify it with a glance, which meant it was synthetic.  


He would not have been surprised to catch Jensen in just his boxers and dog tags, but this was different. This was a skirt, and judging from the exposed line of Jensen’s hip, the small of his back, Jensen was not wearing boxers.  


Jensen was most likely wearing nothing at all underneath the skirt.  


Cougar had watched Jensen for a long time, knew his habits, but he did not know this one. He didn’t like not knowing. He didn’t like it any more than he liked the way the heat was inside of him now, a sharp, hot curl through his middle.  


He was hot and he was tired, and he did not want these feelings that left him weak and less controlled. And if Jensen did not stop tweaking the excited peak of his nipple, Cougar was going to do something he would regret.  


Jensen moved his hand, flicking his tags over his shoulder. His shoulder was paler than it ought to have been and gleaming in the faint green light. Jensen’s tags were trapped on the sticky plane of his shoulder blade. The chain was tight around his neck. Jensen smiled and kept typing.  


Cougar swallowed.  


“Jensen!” Pooch’s voice didn’t break the spell, but it did give Cougar a moment to blink as well as forcing Jensen’s attention away from his computers.  


“Hey guys!” Jensen gave them all an absent look, one hand still at his nipple, and Cougar started swearing in his head. He had many methods of staying calm and this was a method of last resort. A method for when he was hot and thirsty and his teammate would not stop toying with his nipple. It would chafe soon. Cougar could not seem to stop thinking of that, how it might chafe and flush darker. How it might grow so sensitive that the barest touch of his tongue would make Jensen cry out. He would not have thought it at all, at least not out in the open like this, if Jensen had just kept his shirt on.  


“Captain, you are out of uniform” Clay’s voice was very dry. None of them were in uniform, none of them needed to be, but Cougar could see how the Colonel might need to fall back on old habits in the face of this.  


Jensen only frowned a little and turned from his screens long enough to give them all a glimpse of his wide eyes. Cougar was absolutely certain that Jensen had no idea how he looked. Jensen was not known for using his body to get what he wanted, and even if he had been, the skirt would have been a strange choice.  


They’d traveled the world, seen many things, some of them had accepted lovers and whores of different genders, but within their group, within their unit, this was new.  


“Oh yeah,” Jensen offered them all sheepish smile, pausing for another moment to blink at Cougar. Cougar realized he was staring, perhaps more than the others. Jensen’s hand fell away from his nipple.  


At last, Cougar thought, only to immediately frown.  


“Look I don’t want to go into it, but there was an incident involving Scarlett Johansson and Sebastian Stan and a leak about Winter… well suffice it to say my boxers were not wearable anymore and certain people around here get cranky when their commandos go commando, so I put on what I had.” Jensen stopped to scratch at the back of his neck, then dragged the chain on his tags until they fell back to his chest.  


“And that was a skirt?” Aisha pressed. Her voice could have cut glass. “Is that mine?”  


Jensen looked at Cougar again, then back at Aisha. His expression unexpectedly went crafty. Cougar knew that expression. It meant trouble.  


“I’m not saying it is, but if it were, I’d point out that I never saw you wearing it. And also finders keepers.”  


“Jensen,” Clay interrupted, his voice even louder next to Aisha’s ominous absence of sound, “take off the skirt.”  


“Sure about that?” Jensen raised an eyebrow, at Aisha, and Cougar wasn’t sure where Jensen newfound bravery, or insanity, had come from.  


“How did you even get it to fit, bro? You’re like three times her size,” Pooch remarked only to abruptly go silent. Cougar did not turn to look, but suspected that Aisha’s glare had been briefly transferred to him.  


“It doesn’t really cover much,” Jensen admitted, but toyed with the hem. When he shifted his leg, the fabric rose up over his thigh, filmy and damp. The color was dark. Pink might have been better, Cougar thought distantly, then with more attention. Pink or blue or green, but pink would have been best. Pink like Jensen’s toes, pink against his pale skin, pink against his muscle mass, a soft background to the tags that would taste like iron and salt in Cougar’s mouth.  


He had no right to think such things about a teammate. Not in the Army, and not now even when no more army to guide them. It led to problems, led to Clay and Aisha starting fires, out of control blazes that did nothing to ease the ache and left them without a home. Clay would put out a fire with gasoline. Cougar preferred not to start one. Not even with the air crackling and Jensen in front of him, confusing and arousing. Jensen would hand him the matches and tell him something about controlled burns.  


Jensen was also not sane, and usually so desperate to get laid that anyone could have had him. It took much of Cougar’s strength to keep him safe and out of danger. He curled his hands into fists. Too many saw that desperation as it was.  


Jensen was looking at him, a line between his eyes that could have been due to concern or maybe he was Jensen expecting Cougar to take his side. Cougar could have told him it looked good on him. He could have told him to try pink, but his mouth was dry, and this was, for the moment, only an argument between Jensen and Aisha.  


“I will cut it off you if you do not remove it now,” Aisha warned, “and I will not be careful about where the blade goes.” The hairs on the back of Cougar’s neck told him she meant it. Even Jensen seemed to realize it. One moment he was clutching fearfully at his dick, and the next he was standing up, preparing to shimmy out of his borrowed skirt.  


Cougar turned and slipped from the room.

…..

That should have been the end of it. It _was_ the end of it, except for the image in Cougar’s mind when he closed his eyes and Aisha’s lingering resentment.  


She’d stolen Jensen’s favorite laptop in revenge, and burned the skirt in front of him. Aisha had a taste for fire as bad as Clay’s, or so Cougar had thought until the laptop had reappeared a few days later with no explanation. Jensen slept curled protectively around it that night, boxers on, his skin exactly as exposed as it had been in the skirt.  


Cougar’s gaze traced his spine, memorized the curve of his ass in thin cotton along with every contented murmur Jensen made for his dreams, and wanted him. But it was not the skirt, this was containable, controllable. This was Jensen as he always was, so Cougar only imagined his mouth on Jensen's skin and his hands peeling cotton away from Jensen's cock, and not himself wrapped around Jensen, and jacked off and then slept with his back to Jensen’s heat.  


He did not know the difference the skirt made, only that it made one, and when Jensen ended up shitfaced in Rio, wearing something purple and glittery across his chest and small and feathered around his hips, the swearing in Cougar’s head had grown so forceful that he had bitten his bottom lip to hold it back.  


He let no one touch Jensen that night, ignoring Jensen’s sleepy, drunken grumblings about Cougar not needing to guard him from the booty. He took him back to his room, the room he was supposed to have all to himself for once, the room he had been supposed to be fucking a stranger in, and made sure Jensen slept. Cougar himself only slept in fits, his back to Jensen, his eyes unable to close for long as he thought of whoever had covered Jensen in sparkles, growing so hot that he could hear his own breath dragging in and out of his cracked, chapped lips. Jensen sweated out liquor next to him and moaned protests at Cougar in his sleep. But just before dawn when the air was cooler, Cougar woke from a fever dream to find Jensen curled around him, wispy feathers tortuously soft over his hard cock.  


After Rio it was Las Cruces, a tiny box of a room in the middle of the Southwest, a room too crowded with too many people and the relentless whirr of Jensen’s computer. Jensen was bold and demanding as he used the wireless signal he’d just found to cruise websites with Aisha. He turned from the computer to ask Cougar’s opinion on fabric and color, his eyes round and guileless behind his glasses.  


Aisha’s eyes were less so. “Pink,” she announced, the one cool thing in the entire region, cool enough to make Cougar lift an eyebrow at her before returning to reassembling his clean rifle. He did not let his hands shake, but for the first time in a long time, he felt the weather in a prickle of heat at his armpits and a shiver down his back.  


Jensen agreed and chose pink. The way he said the word was the hiss of a match.

…..

He knew it was coming, a skirt of Jensen's very own, would have known it even if Jensen weren't speaking of it to anyone who asked, or didn't ask. Jensen was more excited than usual, his regular chatter occurring with more and more frequency, his voice louder. His talk was of comic books and porn and the heat, always the heat, his mouth in motion as much as his hands, over his chest, down into his lap. They would have shared a room, days without end in a small motel, Pooch on the bed, Jensen at his computer, Cougar in a nest on the floor with his back to the wall, but Cougar chose the roof, blazing daytime sun and only slightly cooler nights. 

It took only a day for Jensen to follow him, appearing at twilight in a t-shirt and boxers to sit with Cougar at his back while he watched TV shows on his laptop and complained that Pooch talked to Jolene on the phone so much that he couldn't sleep. 

There wasn't a hint of anything else in his expression, but though the space between them was hot enough to burn within seconds, Jensen didn't move away. Cougar laid awake with the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end and his skin on fire. He thought of cats, alley cats and strays and survivors, soft, wispy fur and instincts for survival and the transfer of heat that kept them alive despite all odds. 

Jensen only seemed to think about his TV shows, and comic books, and porn, and the heat, always the heat. There seemed to be nothing that would stop his mouth, or nothing that Cougar was willing to try. Jensen, being Jensen, remained at his back anyway, talking about the heat index until his voice was hoarse.

…..

The skirt appeared a few weeks later after Jensen went to visit his sister. A few weeks of Cougar watching and waiting and knowing that he was watching and waiting. He went up to penthouses, into trees, onto roof after roof, where there was only the sun to leave him aching and tired, and came down time and time to Jensen, only Jensen, always Jensen, knowing that Jensen almost had the skirt, then had the skirt, and then that it wouldn't be long before Jensen put it on.

In Tegucigalpa, Clay's voice called him down from his vantage point, eyes only, reconnaissance without a target, "Bring it home, Cougar", the words crackling into his earpiece like the storm lurking in the skies above them. 

Wet heat wouldn't stop the conflagration if lightening struck the trees around the city, and Cougar had been up there, alone, for longer than he wanted to think about, so long his stomach was growling and his lips were cracked. So Cougar went down, slowly, with a litany of swear words in his mind at the weather, at his body, at the lure of coming in to find his team and whatever might be with them. He pulled his hat in front of his eyes and climbed down ladders and crossed a street to get back to the meeting point, a small bar on the first floor of their motel that served beer, tequila, bourbon, and hookers. 

Clay slid him a shot glass filled with something brown that passed for American bourbon that raged all the way down his throat. It was not water, but it would do. He _was_ heat, inside and out, his mouth wet, the space between his shoulder blades itching, and there, on the end of the bench, his head raised in uncertain defiance, was Jensen, his legs spread, his skirt pink. 

His tags were an outline under his t-shirt. His glare was stubborn. 

To Cougar's left, Pooch was snorting into his glass. Clay was red in the face but no longer surprised. Aisha was Aisha. 

"Son of a bitch," Cougar swore out loud, uncurling his hand to reach out and grab a fistful of Jensen's shirt. He yanked him to feet and pulled the chain to his tags tight until his knuckles were to Jensen's throat. Glass hit the floor, spilling bourbon, or perhaps tequila, rough-brewed and volatile enough to only need a spark. 

The light hit Jensen's glasses at an angle, bright and orange. "Yeah, Cougar, but not here," Jensen told him with pink lips, his own pink, pink and soft like the cotton riding his thighs. He said something else, something about being a lady, but his skin was gleaming and he was hard when Cougar touched him, hard like a man who had been on the edge for hours, for weeks, months, years, hard with the skirt no longer letting him hide it. 

The shade outside the bar wasn't any cooler, neither was the dark of a hallway, Jensen's skin stayed damp even when his shirt was torn from him and Cougar pushed his skirt to his waist. The inside of his thighs was as slick as the head of his cock. Cougar had to release Jensen's dog tags to peel away his clothes, but Jensen's fingers were slippery and desperate as they found his and pulled the chain tight.

Cougar's hands stuck to his skin, Jensen's sweat was salt on his tongue, driving his thirst until he slid over Jensen like cotton sticky with trapped heat and kissed his mouth. His hands covered Jensen where the skirt had been and his skin burned at the length of dick pushing into his stomach. The kiss was rotgut whiskey and fire and the soft, shocked moans of a dying man. There was no relief to be had, but he searched for it anyway, licking babble from Jensen's lips and hot iron from the edge of his tags. His nipples were the same, warm like blood and greedy for attention, but it was his flushed dick that Cougar finally took in his mouth. 

Like a man with no sense, or no shame, Jensen held him there, bruising a line around Cougar's throat with the strength of his grip and coming in his mouth moments later. Cougar bruised him back, fingertips branding his thighs as he held him close and drank, easing only a little when Jensen jerked with a hint of electricity. There was sweat in his palms, against his cheek and he didn't fight when he was pulled to his feet. He kept the skirt up, kept it pressed flat to Jensen's navel while he settled over his thigh, pressed it too hard as he rocked into Jensen's hip. 

He got off to the sound of Jensen swearing what could have been fidelity into his ear, "Oh fuck, Cougs, finally," and jerked against him in startled pleasure, creating more heat where the skin would not cool. No matter what he did, it would not cool. There was always this. His fingers moved, finding pink cotton, making sure to stain that too, and Jensen released Cougar's tags to tweak his own nipples, still turned on, still on fire. His moan was loud. 

Cougar breathed hard and swallowed and felt no easing at all as Jensen curled closer around him. He turned to lean sideways against the wall and catch his breath and Cougar followed him in with barely a pause, unwilling to leave his back exposed. There was a shiver as his body adjusted, and then another, and then nothing but his dry throat and a low burn in his stomach, need, a fire that could not be put out, only contained for small periods of time, heat to be shared. 

"Just so you know, I'm up for doing that again." Jensen noisily licked his lips. "Just so you know." Cougar had watched Jensen for a very long time, and knew there would be a line between his eyes, a sign of tension as he waited for Cougar to do something. 

Cougar ignored their location, the others who could be watching, his team down in the bar getting drunk, and spoke so his breath was damp over Jensen's skin. 

"It looks good on you," Cougar told him, as he should have a long time ago. 

"That's what I'm saying," Jensen answered, and rubbed against him, preening and proud.

The End


End file.
